A Sorta Fairytale With You
by DarkSlayer84
Summary: Narcissa x Remus. The princess and the wallflower throw caution to the wind, if only for one dance. The Snowflake Festival of '78 just might end well. Predates the books, obviously. COMPLETE.
1. ONE: Snowdrop

_**A Sorta Fairytale With You**_

DarkSlayer84

-_For Nyohah-_

ONE: Snowdrop

_I am poison; crazy, lush  
Built these hands to lift me up  
We are servants of our formulaic ways _

_-Bush, "Greedy Fly"_

Narcissa did not push. And certainly she did not shove. That was for boys, and only for the most rowdy sort at that. So it really should not have startled her when James Potter and his gaggle of miscreants bumped past her in a sea of robe and elbow and crackly, voice-shifting teenage boy-laughter.

Why Sirius persisted in hobnobbing with those troublemakers was beyond her. As was how he managed to get himself sorted into Gryffindor.

Gryffindor! Of all places. The antithesis of the great and powerful Slytherin house. It was something of a boy's club, really, Gryffindor. The emphasis therein was on foolhardy stunts--called "bravery" by the more sympathetic instructors--and Quidditch.

She vehemently disliked Quidditch. To her it was a silly game. No, not silly; pointless. Boys and tomboys flew on broomsticks at breakneck pace to get leather balls through hoops on the ends of long pointy sticks. And, out in the larger wizarding world, people frittered away as much as thirty Galleons for a ticket to watch bigger, older boys do the same thing. The idea that grown men delighted in such spectacle was both incomprehensible to her and distasteful.

Lucius played Quidditch.

Narcissa did not stumble, even when the staircase buckled in front of her and swung, fluidly but with a bit much haste, off to the left. It soon spiraled upward, straight toward the homeroom door.

The young, pale woman in the picture frame could not have looked more bored. She glanced down at her nails; the tips were lacquered a seething, poisonous green. Her voice was like paper crinkling.

"Password?"

"Fame and notoriety."

Iris Parkinson was lounging on the couch in the common room, chatting with plain little Mina Green, the honors student who should have been in Ravenclaw with the other social rejects. Narcissa only noticed Iris because Iris was a pretty girl with dark hair, blue eyes, and pure blood who had the nerve to dislike her. Mina she did not notice at all. Iris was the one who reminded her uncomfortably of Bellatrix, and of the way Bellatrix abandoned her, which made Narcissa very angry indeed. Iris, for her part, simply liked ripping pieces out of the fifth-richest girl in school. Narcissa usually won the clawing matches that ensued. She had the resolve. Iris was fundamentally lazy and had no concept of real pain. She did not know what abandonment was. Narcissa did.

The girls fell silent and white when she approached, looking at their laps and smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of their robes. Narcissa paid it no mind. She had neither quarrel nor use for either of them today. In truth, she didn't even notice, gliding straight past them to her room.

And it was _her_ room. As a direct Black, a first cousin in that most ancient and noble house, she was accorded certain special privileges. She certainly should have been; her mother Atropina put enough money into this miserable school to own half of it, this slate-grey heap of spires with its hateful girls and lying boys.

No, that was unfair.

Hogwarts was an excellent school. She adored Hogwarts. It was her classmates she didn't care for.

They hated her. Both for the usual reasons, the expected reasons, and for some that she couldn't define. What exactly was wrong with money and power?

Narcissa considered herself in the mirror. She did this many times a day, both because she had to maintain her appearance and because-it wasn't a secret-she was fond of the mirror. Or, rather, of whom she saw in the mirror. She knew she was lovely, if a little thin, a little long in the face. It pleased her, the way sunlight made her skin glow back at her in the glass. She had no need of Lady Leeds' Erasure Cream (the other girls swore by it; it got rid of test mistakes and skin blemishes with equal efficiency) or Messrs. Johnson's Petal-Soft Powder. She might need something in later years, perhaps, if she took after her mother. Atropina's skin was creased up like parchment, and she wasn't so many years past forty.

Bellatrix had warned Narcissa about the terrible power of wrinkles. They were an ill magic that ages of sorcery hadn't been able to completely cure. She'd explained all that, and how to avoid them, and smiled even though it caused the skin around her eyes to crinkle. That hadn't mattered overmuch. Bellatrix could trade on the power of that smile, a blinding thing that stopped hearts.

Narcissa was secretly intimidated by the thought of wrinkles. She dreamed about them, sometimes, folds in her skin that opened up like cracks in the ground after a hard frost, fissures that split her skin as if it were paper. In these dreams she bled, and her blood poured like ink over her hands, turning green and glittering as it did so. It stuck to her hands, green and shining and hateful, and her hands withered under the weight of it, curling and peeling away at the wrists.

In these dreams the other girls were gathered 'round, pointing, laughing uproariously because here was the great Narcissa Black, here was the loveliest girl of the House of Black, and now she had wrinkles, etchings in her skin that made her unlovely, that made her hideous and foul, and no boy would want to dance with her then.

Lucius would not want her if she were ugly. He had said as much himself.

Narcissa coiled both hands 'round the mirror frame and clutched it until they stopped shaking.

She tilted her head. Her hair was not what they called "spun gold curls". Those were for children and innocents. Narcissa's hair was white, burned white, with the suggestion of yellow in it. It was brilliant as ice.

Iris had torn it, just over her left temple. She smoothed it, and her reflection winced. Hiding the bruise was easy enough. Ignoring the pain was not. Pretending it wasn't there would simply have to do.

She had to be presentable. That was so very important to Lucius. The girl in the mirror looked wonderful when she smiled, after all. Even if she showed a bit much teeth.

Creating the appearance of makeup was easy enough, a series of minor illusions she'd learned in third year. Dresses she could not manage magically. That didn't matter. She had a closetful. More than that, truth be told, though the rest of them were at the house in Grimmauld Place. She was fond of dresses, though not as fond as she was of the mirror.

Boys who wanted her to think well of them tended to bring her dresses. This made the other girls whisper foul things, not the least of which was "harlot". Nonsense. Narcissa would never defile herself over something as meaningless as a few yards of cloth, no matter how nicely it was arranged. It was one more proof of her theory: Hogwarts students were small-minded and dirty and cruel.

And she was one of them. The paradox wasn't lost on her. She wondered how long it would be before someone pointed this out and flung it back in her face. They always did, sooner or later. It was one of the main reasons she kept quiet. She would rather remain silent. Silent, and superior.

She was exceptional. Her Herbology instructor said so. And the other girls did not get dresses from their admirers.

Narcissa wouldn't wear any of those gifts to the dance, of course. She didn't want to be wearing an obligation. She wanted to have a nice time. And to look thrilling on Lucius' arm. They were going to be married—there was no question of that. There had not been for several years. Their families were an excellent match. The Malfoys needed the status of the Blacks, and the Blacks needed the money of the Malfoys.

Bellatrix had accomplished the same thing in smaller measure by attracting the attention of the Lestranges. They'd had money, yes, and credibility, but not enough of either. Atropina lived like a lady and had a lady's expenses, and, as she was fond of pointing out, "little girls do not feed, clothe, or educate themselves."

Soon most of the money was gone. Not because Bellatrix's husband had run out, but simply because he was tired of catering to Atropina. Bellatrix had done her wifely duty and sided with him. Only Narcissa knew how happy Bellatrix was to close ranks. She had a letter—a note, really, scribbled and fervent and suspiciously water-stained in places—saying as much.

One that began, _"Dearest. We will never see each other again."_

Narcissa kicked the armoire on her way to the closet. It offended her. She'd had it since she was a child, and shared it. It was old. She had her own room now and should have had her own things. New things. Things without a history. Lucius would get her a new one; they were going to buy entirely new furniture when they were married. He'd promised. She had only to wait.

The closet door was darkly stained oak—she'd changed it to match the cherry tone of her own furniture ages ago—and slid aside easily. The dresses took up most of it. The gift dresses were in the back, and her newest personal finds were in the front. She'd been shopping for this event since she'd first heard rumors of it in August.

Choosing the right gown would not take long. As much as she enjoyed admiring the changes different colors wrought in her face and eyes and figure, most of that wore off after she purchased them. The happiness of buying things did not last long. The allure of change existed mostly in the store.

She found the perfect dress in less than two minutes.

It was the color of mist, crisp and shimmering. It settled with less weight than the wings of a butterfly. The closures were no trouble; there was real convenience to the Muggle concept of the zipper, and the wizarding world caught on swiftly. She looked at herself in the mirror, and adjusted her makeup to be just a little cooler in tone, a little darker; her eye shadow went from fashionable turquoise to a more lapis shade. The lipstick was as red as she dared; red did not suit her, but leaving the lipstick too dark would make her sallow. Jaundice victims did not get their choice of dancing partners.

Lucius was a competent dancer, if not especially imaginative. He led with assurance through all the requisite steps. A dance with Lucius was hardly the waltz with Prince Charming that every girl was supposed to want, but damned if she would play Cinderella for anyone. The very concept of scrubbing _anything_ made bile rise in her throat. That was for house-elves and Muggles. She was neither, and if Lucius was not particularly dashing, at least he did not expect her to slave over him.

Once she finished with the gown, Narcissa pinned up her hair up and went to get her shoes. The silver ones with the long straps and glass heels. They made her calves a little slimmer and brought out the strong, perfect lines of her ankles. They really were perfect. Ideal for any princess courting her fairytale lover.

Lucius was devoted, in his way. He told her often how much he loved her, and in moments when he was being more honest, how much he loved having her with him. He was beautiful and rich and intense. And if that intensity sometimes left marks, if the strength of his grip bruised her wrists, well. It was proof of his regard.

She did hope that his regard might lessen after they were married.


	2. TWO: Eclipsed

TWO: Eclipsed

_You know it's really not surprising  
I hold a force I can't contain _

_Somebody get me out of here  
I'm tearing at myself  
Nobody gives a damn about me  
Or anybody else _

_--Garbage, "Medication"_

Remus Lupin was a true Gryffindor. He knotted his own thumb into his tie eight times before giving up, and then only out of frustration. He knew it was an easy thing. Or that it should be. Muggles did it all the time.

"You're quite sure," said the dark-haired boy over his shoulder, "that you simply _must_ wear this thing?"

James Potter had elected to go a much less formal route, skipping the notion of a tuxedo altogether. Although his burgundy velvet bell-bottoms were probably going to cause far more of an uproar than Lupin's crooked finger trap of a tie.

"Yes," Lupin huffed. "What's wrong with it? Enlighten me, O Disco Maestro."

"Oh, nothing," said James. "If you're one of those blokes in black that wear mascara and powder and sing whiny songs about how lousy their lives are."

Lupin blinked. So what if most of his clothes were black? They were easier to clean when they were only one color. The idea of mascara frightened him. He did wear powder, now and then, but only to even out the mottled, blotchy appearance that settled on him just before or just after the full moon. Very few people realized he was a werewolf, and he wanted to keep it that way.

And he was not. Into "new wave" or whatever it was James kept teasing him about. That was more Muggle insanity.

"Here," said James, going after Lupin with the powder brush from his kit. "You'll need more of it than that."

"Stop it!" He swatted at James in a rare display of temper, snagging the brush. "I'm serious."

"So I see," said James, mollified, brushing his hair out of his eyes. His cufflinks—outrageous acrylic knobs meant to look like diamonds—clattered a little as he did so. "I meant nothing by it. Sorry, mate."

"Me too," Lupin said. "Just nervous, I guess."

"Are you both going to fiddle with that all day?" Sirius was tetchy—he hated proper dress shoes, they hurt his feet—and when he got tetchy, he paced. "Look!" He jabbed a finger at the windows. "Sunshine! Sky! Happy little woodland creatures!"

James snorted at that one. "Fancy a spot of squirrel chasing, is that it, Padfoot?"

"Very funny. I want," griped Sirius, "to go outside, and do something interesting, and I want you to come along."

"What kind of interesting?"

"Mischief interesting," Sirius said shortly. He looked affronted. "As if there were some other kind of interesting."

"Yes," mumbled Lupin as he shrugged out of the tie. Again. "Yes, there is."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "She hates you," he said. "She hates me. She hates Gryffindor, and Quidditch, _and_ mischief. I fail to see what's interesting about it."

James was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was standing directly between Sirius and Lupin. And that the subject of Narcissa Black was never neutral ground for very long. Remus had been interested in her since second year, and almost being trampled by her in the hall this morning hadn't done anything to quell his curiosity.

For his part, James wasn't afraid of an argument, but he wasn't eager for a shouting match, either. This stupid dance thing—Snowflake Festival, they were calling it--was supposed to be a chance for a bit of fun. Maybe they'd pull pranks once they got there, maybe they wouldn't. He might even try to find Lily on the dance floor at some point.

Provided, of course, that they all arrived in one piece.

"Right then," Lupin said. "I'm supposed to drop it and come along like a good boy because she's your cousin."

"She is in Slytherin." The words were soft and final. It was the wrong tone to take with Lupin at that moment.

"Jealous?" asked Lupin softly.

"What?" Sirius closed the distance between them in two long strides and hissed in his friend's ear. "You know perfectly well that this is a very bad idea. Lucius will rip you apart."

"Lucius is a pile of twigs in a fancy shirt. He's frightened of his own shadow."

"He couldn't beat you with his hands, no. But with money. With influence." Sirius gritted his teeth. "What if you did fight him? If you really got into it, let it all go, and he found out. Suppose word got 'round about your condition?"

Lupin went very pale. He hadn't considered that.

"Oh hell," Sirius said gruffly. Remus looked strangely fragile whenever he was scared. Like a kicked puppy. It was a feeling Sirius himself was too familiar with. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"Yes, you did," said James. As the peacemaker of the group, he felt obligated to say _something_, even if it was just a wisecrack.

"Well," Sirius acknowledged with a smirk, "maybe."

"It worked," said Lupin, a little too withdrawn to smile. The color hadn't come back into his face yet, and he was getting that damnable faraway look that Sirius knew meant Lupin was feeling bitter with himself again.

With a small sigh, Sirius reached over and plucked up the abandoned swatch of cloth Remus had been wrestling with earlier. Sometimes, getting a thing done right meant doing it yourself. Even if you didn't particularly want to, and it was a fool's errand, and your best friend was going to get his heart broken for sure no matter what you did.

"Come on, mate," said Sirius. "Let's get you into this thing."


	3. THREE: C'est La Danse

THREE: C'est La Danse

_Instinct, bare-boned  
Light it up, take it home  
You will be all things  
You get what you bring  
Leaning to fire _

_--Bush, "Tendency to Start Fires" _

_Someone said boy you're a natural voyeur  
It's true that I do get a kick  
From watching you dreaming  
Where did my redeeming qualities go?  
I just don't know  
Anymore _

_--Lifestyle, "Voyeur"_

The Snowflake Festival had been aptly named; the room was decorated white and silver, in a cooler, sleeker rendition of the Christmas decorations from a few months ago. Hat stands along the sides of the room had been Transfigured into bare trees covered in snow. Everything shone.

Rock music jangled along in the background; someone up at the Ministry must have approved use of Muggle machinery for this one occasion. Narcissa wished they could have done something about the album selection, though. She didn't care for Aerosmith—their singer looked as if someone had attacked his lips with an Engorging Charm. And he was whiny. The music itself was alright, but that _voice_ of his. Far too shrill and petulant.

Narcissa did not hold her breath waiting for Lucius. She drew it in sharply, though, when she saw him. Lucius was nothing less than perfect, if one judged perfection on how he looked. He was poised, confident and sharp in a flawless black dinner jacket too crisp to be anything other than brand new. His shirt was a much paler version of the blue of his eyes, and the effect was both cold and stunning.

Narcissa wondered whether the feeling that danced down her spine was a chill. He smiled when he saw her, a dashing presentation of perfect white teeth, but he did not wave. That would have been blatant and vulgar, and taken people's focus from him for a second and put in on the girl he was waving at--her, in this case.

Narcissa smiled in return. She loved attention even more than he did, and had fewer qualms about causing a scene. Under all his bravado, Lucius was just a shade squeamish. She snaked her hand forward, delicately, and made a sweeping wave in his direction that had her bangles singing against each other. Heads turned.

"Lucius!" she called out, keeping the sincerity at a believable pitch as she clipped gingerly across the floor. Real walking was difficult in glass heels. "Over here, darling."

"Angel!" His face lit up as if he'd seen her for the first time. Only the hard line of his chin gave him away.

They met by the punch bowl, a massive glittery thing with ice-crystal designs swirling up the sides in delicate, feathery patterns that caught the light. It sat in a sea of white tablecloth with gleaming silver stars piled on it. They were tiny Transfigurations--changed paperclips, it looked like. The effect would probably fade to normal by morning.

She grinned at him. The corner of Lucius' mouth twitched. It was not a smile. Those even white teeth were not nearly as pretty when they were bared at her.

"You're late." He said it as if she were something from the bottom of his shoe.

"Yes," she said brightly, "they are wonderful decorations, aren't they?"

His hand tightened painfully on hers.

"Do not," he murmured, "embarrass me again. Ever."

"You," she hissed, "are _hurting_ me."

As soon as he let go, she poured them both some punch. Best to keep his hands off her, given the mood he was in. Best to keep busy. And if she could look attentive and caring while doing it, so much the better. She wondered why she had ever thought of that sour look of his as charming and pouty.

He took his drink with a nod of thanks, finished it quickly, and fished in his coat pocket for his watch.

"Narcissa, darling!" Iris came floating up beside them, with Mina in tow.

"Iris," Narcissa murmured, glad that her smile stayed in place. "Fancy meeting you here."

Lucius watched them for a moment, eyes grey with cold. He grinned in much the same manner as Narcissa. Iris Parkinson was not his favorite person, either.

"Nice to see you," he said politely. He clasped her hand, but did not kiss it, and let go quite soon.

"Ch-charmed," stammered Iris, brilliant red. Mina giggled, equally flushed.

"What brings you both all the way across the hall?" Narcissa asked in her most innocent voice.

Iris narrowed her eyes. "The company, I suppose. It certainly isn't the music."

"This record," said Mina, valiantly trying to change the subject, "is horrible."

"Quite," Lucius agreed.

"I," Narcissa said firmly, "happen to _like_ Jimi Hendrix. Thank you both. Kindly."

"Not something your mother would approve of, I'd imagine," Mina sniffed.

"Oh, Mina, I thought you'd know all about it." Narcissa smiled. "Given that your uncle is a Muggle."

Mina turned the color of canned beets.

"You--" stammered Iris. "Y-y-you're a mudblood?"

She practically recoiled from Mina, who bolted from the room sobbing.

Narcissa couldn't have said she felt sorry. Mina mocked her often enough. And if Mina lacked both the sense and the taste to appreciate true music, then she deserved whatever happened to her. Iris was not the best of friends for that poor girl, anyway. Even if she was all Mina had.

Perhaps Narcissa did feel just a little sorry. But nothing would change it now. Iris left shortly after Mina, either distraught for her, or embarrassed because of her. The embarrassment was far more likely.

Narcissa was beginning to feel quite sorry, indeed, though she wasn't sure why. Certainly she wouldn't admit to having seen some of herself in Mina; the adoring shadow, the enamored reflection of the statuesque dark-haired girl with blue eyes.

The thought was altogether too close for comfort.

"Darling," said Narcissa, "I simply must sit a moment; my shoes are killing me."

"As you like," replied Lucius. He frowned. "That was hardly necessary."

"I'll apologize tomorrow," she snapped.

He stiffened, looking slighted, but left her to her own devices. She found a whitewashed stool perched against the wall, and eased down to it with a delicate sigh. From here, she was able to get a good look at the dancers. They were, for the most part, a sea of couples in matching pastel finery, bouncing with varying degrees of energy to the music.

It wasn't difficult to spot Sirius—he was being dragged along by that horrible boy, James, who was wearing a screaming cherry velour leisure suit. He positively swaggered across the floor, desperate to impress a frosty-looking redhead in a dark, one-shouldered blue satin dress.

Remus Lupin stood a little way behind them, on the right. He caught her eye immediately. He usually did, blast him. There was something about him, something disheveled and awkward and sweet that kept her looking, even when she knew she shouldn't. Even when she knew it would be trouble.

His plain tuxedo was just a shade too large on him, cuffs showing white past the edge of his jacket. His tie was slightly crooked and very skinny, in that new Muggle style that was going around. He definitely had the hair for it. It suited him. Very nicely.

She decided right then and there that she would talk with him.

It was easy enough to get Lucius to come along. He believed in family obligation even more than she did, and chuckled in approval when she mentioned "being gracious" to her "misfit cousin" and his friends. It was the courteous thing to do, after all, even if they were a pack of Gryffindor roughians.

She put on her best appearances, and Sirius did an equally good job of pretending to be happy to see her. He would have made an excellent Slytherin. He went so far as to hug her, briefly, and it felt like it always had, strong and warm. She knew her own touch was light and cold. For a moment, he felt like the better person. She grit her teeth and let go. His smile was more than a little angry, but his eyes looked almost sad.

"Good evening, Narcissa," was all he said. He actually managed to shake hands with Lucius, who pretended not to notice when Sirius scrubbed his palm on his trouser leg after.

James Potter bravely extended a hand, and shook hers. The combined clatter of her bracelets and his cufflinks was the perfect opposite of her hug from Sirius. She actually snickered over it, just a bit. James grinned and wiggled an eyebrow at her in complete unrepentance.

James held out a palm to Lucius, who was completely unfamiliar with the concept of "high-five", and thus after a few tense seconds, received a slightly awkward "low-five" that was part handshake.

Narcissa fought the urge to sniff in disdain, because she found with some surprise that she actually liked the "awful Potter boy" after having met him. He could really _be_ someone if he weren't so dead set on being a loser instead.

But it was his friend in the skinny tie with the ragged haircut that held her attention. His eyes were nearly the same color as his hair. She would have liked to get a better look at them, but he kept glancing at the floor.

"Hello, Remus."

He said nothing at all for a moment--his jaw hitched a little before he managed, "Lovely to see you, Miss Black."

"Charmed," sneered Lucius. He did not shake hands.

She blinked. She had quite forgotten he was even there, though he saw fit to forcibly make himself part of the conversation now. That suggested he knew or suspected just how much of her attention had been focused on Remus Lupin from the very beginning, and that could be bad. It could be very bad.

If she let it be. Which she would not. She was a descendant of the House of Black and Lucius would do very well to remember it, now and then. They were not married yet.

"Do call me Narcissa," she said, pulling one arm out of Lucius' death grip and extending it to Remus.

"Narcissa," he repeated. His hand was very warm cupped around hers. "Shall we--? Could we, uh…"

"I'd be delighted." With that, she slunk from Lucius' arm like a lynx uncoiling off the side of a tree. It was a smooth, feral motion and watching it, watching her, tweaked something wild in the back of Lupin's brain.

He swallowed uncomfortably and forced himself to relax, or at least to try; he was still holding onto her, and didn't want to crush her fingers.

"I'm not made of glass," she said with a smile. "Well, just my shoes."

At that moment, the rock music died, and The Carpenters began to trill about sunshine and love. Lupin would never understand why, whenever he could least deal with it, there would be a slow song. He was determined not to lose hold of her now, though. Lucius had not seemed to want to let go. Lupin shied from the thought of the red fingerprints he knew perfectly well were there on the smooth white inside of her arm.

He took Narcissa's hand and was very careful not to press too tightly with his arm as he held her. She felt slight and hot in his grip. He did not see so much as feel the way she moved, as swift and sure and easy as if she were made of water. Her gown sort of drifted along behind her and was just a shade rough to the touch, with the faint uneven quality of real silk. This close, it was her eyes that held him fast, dark and cold, the color of the frozen ocean. He must have been dancing right, because she was smiling, the corners of her mouth curling upward just a little. He wondered what she noticed about him. She seemed to be looking very intently at the tip of his nose.

"So, uh," he began, and cleared his throat. "Are you—are you having a nice time?"

It was such a stupid question. He hated it the moment it was out of his mouth. But it made her smile a little more.

"I'm wondering," she said, "about your shampoo."

"What?" He wasn't sure what sort of answer he'd expected, but it wasn't that.

"You heard me," she said, leaning into his neck. "Your shampoo." The tip of her tongue curled up against the ends of her teeth before brushing gently against his throat. "I'm assuming that's why your hair smells so good."

He stopped dead. He was too shocked to move. She caught herself well before tripping over him, standing up straight, polite and demure and not the least bit discomfited. Her laughter shimmered like everything else about her.

"We can't stop dancing now," she murmured, squeezing his hand. "The song isn't over yet."

"Right," he managed. The steps seemed a little easier now. He felt lighter. "Um," he said. "Thanks."

"You're quite welcome, Remus," she said, just a glint of mischief in her eyes.

"Your shoes," he said. "They're really made of glass?"

"Just like Lucius' patience," she said, surprised by how very bitter it sounded.

"He has to wait," said Lupin, "for his audience with the princess, like everybody else."

Narcissa snorted. "If you make any reference to the stroke of midnight, so help me, I will kill you."

Something tightened at the corners of Lupin's eyes, shifting in pain and grim fascination. "Please."

Narcissa wasn't entirely certain he was joking. She was not entirely certain she wanted to know why not. She decided, with his hand against the middle of her back, that the why of it did not matter so very much.

Nothing mattered very much at all, except that the two of them were dancing together. It only mattered that he smelled nice and did not grip too tightly, and that she could feel his heartbeat if she leaned close enough. It only mattered that they would remain together for as long as the music continued to play.

Perhaps longer. Lucius wasn't fond of dancing, and in this case it was very much his loss. Remus was—glad. Pleased with the ice-haired girl in her smoky wisp of a dress and the frank, intent look in her eyes. She was quite clever, too. He'd hoped she would be. And she didn't seem nearly as allergic to mischief as Sirius implied—in fact, she had the same wily sparkle in her eyes that he did. Maybe it was a Black family trait. He'd only met one, so he didn't really know for sure.

But he was certain he'd enjoy finding out.

"Don't worry," Lupin said, and grinned. "Midnight is a long way off."

- END -

**Author's Notes:** For Nyohah.

All continuity errors are mine. Continuity information was obtained at the Harry Potter Lexicon website. Mrs. Black II's name is not actually Atropina. I made that up. (Atropine is the poison found in foxglove and nightshade. I thought it was fitting.) This fic was written while listening to the Bush album _Razorblade Suitcase_ at high volume. The tracks "Greedy Fly" and "Tendency to Start Fires" were of particular use. Here I should add that they're obviously not my lyrics, nor am I making money by using them.


End file.
